


Everything He Ever Wanted

by RiceVermicelli



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25758661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiceVermicelli/pseuds/RiceVermicelli
Summary: The rest of the family had plans, so he has the house to himself.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Booker | Sebastien le Livre
Comments: 2
Kudos: 83





	Everything He Ever Wanted

Booker has everything he wanted when he was thirty: a comfortable chair, a book, a dish of almonds, a bottle of wine. He and Copley have been wrangling over plans for the next year, for work and training, but there is no more to be done right now. The rest of the family had plans, so he has the house to himself.

He pours himself a glass of the wine, and stretches his toes towards the fire. These quiet moments are a rare thing these days. Booker loves the ease and comfort that the family is growing, but they are all so large and so loud. Any of the six of them could stab an enemy fighter without being heard, but none of them can come down the stairs without making an unholy racket. That’s probably wise. The slightest hint of stealth would have them all drawing knives. But it’s a relief to sink into the quiet, to hear nothing but the crackling fire and the occasional _shussh_ of a car passing on the road. He hears a jogger going by. They must have a keychain like Andy’s, it rattles in exactly the same way.

And then he hears the key in the door and realizes it must be Andy. She relocks the door behind her, but doesn’t pause on the way through the living room. Booker smiles as her sneakers clomp up the stairs, and the water starts in her bathroom. One person’s noise is still going to be blissful quiet. He takes a sip of wine, and then a handful of nuts, and starts reading.

He’s deep in his book when Andy comes downstairs again. 

“Where is everyone?” She asks.

“Joe has an ambulance shift. Nicky’s sitting vigil at St. Martin’s. Nile and Quynh called earlier, they’re in Rio for the New Year. Nile’s Portuguese is improving.”

“I worry about them, off together.”

There’s nothing Booker can say to that. He worries too.

Andy shakes her head, as if she’s clearing it. “I’m making tea,” she says. “Do you want any?”

Booker gestures at his wine. “I’m alright,” he tells her, and she nods, goes into the kitchen. He wonders if she’ll be back, but she is, about ten minutes later, the teapot in one hand, a mug hanging from one finger.

“Do you mind if I stay?” she asks. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He gestures towards the fire. “Please.” Andy steals a cushion to the floor, and he moves the nuts to where they both can reach. 

Neither of them speak. Andy is gazing into the fire, her thoughts clearly miles away. Booker turns a page he hasn’t read, waits a minute, and turns it back. 

“I didn’t know until I walked in on Nicky explaining to Nile,” she says. “I could have known if I’d thought about it, but I didn’t.”

“I didn’t want you to think about it.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t understand why I could never quite seem to reach you. I thought, maybe you just didn’t like us. Or weren’t happy.”

“I admit, I wasn’t happy. Not your fault.”

She looks at him. Sometimes he thinks he must have imagined the power of her face, but when she looks at him, he feels it. “I wish you’d told me.”

He closes the book, lays it down. “There was nothing you could have done.”

“Still.”

Booker looks into Andy’s eyes for a long moment. They’ve never talked much. It’s mostly been this - long looks, in which they both try to put all the things they mean. He knows she means all the things, and he can’t take it tonight, so he breaks first.

“How was the run?”

She blinks at him. “Shitty. Cold. I’m going to have to start wrapping my ankle if I want to go more than five miles.”

He slides off the chair, takes a seat beside her on the rug. “Do you ever wonder if this kind of thing is why all of us wind up in bed together? We tell each other everything, because it’s vital that we know it in a fight, and eventually, sex doesn’t seem like it would add to the intimacy.”

She’s spearing him with her eyes again. “I thought we were even, when we were sleeping together. I didn’t know you were doing anything for me that wasn’t happening while we were fucking.”

“I thought at least one of us could be happy.”

“It never works that way, Book! You can’t pile up your own pain in a corner and ignore it.”

“I know that now. I thought I could. It seemed better.”

“I never wanted you to do me any favors. And now there’s this huge debt…”

He puts a hand on hers, stopping her from tearing at her hair. “If there’s debt, it runs the other way. I hurt all of you. I was supposed to be alone for a hundred years.”

“That was a stupid idea of ours. We shouldn’t have. Really.”

“What changed your minds?”

“Nile kept having the dreams. And we realized you were out there, having the same dreams on your own.”

“Well, neither of us is having them any more.”

“Small mercies.”

“Not so small, to me. Probably not to Nile, either. Or Quynh.”

She lifts her chin to acknowledge the point. 

Booker can smell the soap she uses, something with clove, and the light floral scent of her shampoo. The neck of her sweater is sliding towards one shoulder, showing one wing of her collarbone. He can remember nights when all of them sprawled together, tangled like a pile of puppies. Nights when none of them could sleep, nights when they were strung out from fighting and running, and too wired to keep still. Other nights, too, and the difference between safehouses and houses where they know that they are safe. 

“You have been the dearest friend I’ve had in all the time since I first died,” he tells her. “How can I make it right for you?”

He isn’t expecting her to answer right away. He isn’t expecting her to attack him either, or he might have stopped her, but she is suddenly on top of him, straddling his lap. Her hands are braced on his shoulders, and she’s biting at his lips, along the line of his jaw. He grips her waist, stopping her from grinding his button fly into his erection. 

“What do you want?” He asks. “I can’t do this by looks and hints. I need you to tell me.”

The weight of her forehead on his is familiar, from whispering in the dark, from the recovery from dozens, maybe hundreds of deaths, from moments like this, too few, too rare.

“When we first…” she trails off, and he nods his understanding. “I wanted us to know each other, and when I learned what you had been keeping from me, I thought we had maybe never known each other at all.” Her voice is rough. He closes his eyes and strokes her hair while she stops to breathe.

“And I still want to know you,” Andy goes on. “I feel like I missed so many important things. I want to do it better.”

Booker opens his eyes again. “I cannot imagine what you would be like if you were better than you are.”

She looks away from him. “It’s embarrassing how much I wanted you to love me.”

Booker feels his heart split open - a thing he’s felt before, but never with his ribs intact. His chest is suddenly too small, too tight. He’s been more coherent after being hit by some grenades. His arms still seem to be working, they’ve gathered Andromache tightly to him, too close to kiss her mouth. His hands are under her sweater, pressing her closer, and his lips are playing across all the skin that they can reach. He hears himself, but can’t tell whether he’s shouting or whispering.

“I do, I did, oh god, Andy, I wanted to let you in so badly, dearest, please…”

She takes off her sweater, then grasps his head in her hands, holds him still. “Yes. Yes, yes, always yes.” 

He rolls her to the floor, buries his head between her breasts, fumbles one-handed with his belt. The thought of how much time they’ve wasted makes him frantic, and Andy is pressing her hips into him, scrambling at the buttons of his shirt. She skins out of her leggings as he kicks off his jeans, pulls him back to her to trail love bites across his chest.

He moans her name, over and over. He tries to remember to be careful as he runs his fingernails down her back, catches one of her breasts between his hand and his mouth as she arches towards him. His other hand slides down her body, around the sweet curve of her ass and over the front of her thigh to stroke between her legs. Her wetness makes his cock ache for her with the sweetest pain he can imagine. He rubs the length of her slit with two fingers, and circles her clit with his thumb, while she spreads her thighs open beneath him, against him, for him. 

“Book,” she pants. “I need this. Please.” 

“Now?” he asks her. 

“Now.”

Her skin is flushed and her eyes are wild and dark. He kneels between her thighs and drapes her legs over his knees, takes himself in his hand and strokes her labia with the head of his cock as she moans and twists her body against him. He stretches one leg back, leans forward on his elbows, and slides into her cunt. “Andy.”

She’s hot, soft, slick, tight, hungry. She plants her feet and matches him stroke for stroke, clawing and caressing his back. “Book. Sebastian. Yes. Oh, yes. I’ve wanted you so much.”

“Andromache. Lover. Lover, I have ached for you…” Book can’t hold back, and Andy is pushing him, he can tell she is close to the edge herself. He rocks on one elbow, and brings the other hand back to her clit, and with a single, slightly twisting stroke, brings them both over.

Afterwards, he can’t let go. He twines his arms around Andy like she’s the only thing keeping him afloat. He agrees that they should move to one of their bedrooms, and by the time they’ve climbed the stairs, he’s so desperate to hold her again that he swings her into his arms and carries her down the hall. 

“We’re going to be worse than they are,” she murmurs, nuzzling at his neck.

“Only fair,” he agrees. “They’ve been insufferable forever, we’re owed at least two hundred years.”

“I’m owed eight hundred and ninety.”

When Joe comes home, the wine is still open on the table in the living room, and the tea is cold. The living room is scattered with almonds and abandoned clothing. Booker and Andromache have forgotten to close the bedroom door, but they are fast asleep.


End file.
